


The Journal of Dr. John H. Watson: 11th Armoured Division

by squigglyhandmotion



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 1940s AU, Army Doctor! John, Diary/Journal, Epistolary, Friends to Lovers, John's got 99 problems and his ingrained heteronormativity is most of them, M/M, Nazi Germany AU, POV John Watson, Pass The Cheese challenge, tag omitted to avoid spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-08
Updated: 2015-10-26
Packaged: 2018-04-08 06:38:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 9,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4294527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squigglyhandmotion/pseuds/squigglyhandmotion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1945, Allied troops liberate 60,000 inmates at Bergen-Belsen concentration camp. Dr. John Watson is among the medical staff caring for the former prisoners. Intrigued by one of them (hint: it's Sherlock), he is encouraged to form a friendship by his commander Major Stamford. When the end of the war and consequent repatriation separates them, Sherlock and John must explore their relationship through letters until the promise of a new life in a small London flat brings them back together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. April 13th, 1945, Germany

April 13th, 1945, Germany

  
A victory for the Allies! A few days ago, the Germans handed over a prisoner-of-war camp to us, willingly. No fight. Well, it turns out that the whole place is infected with typhus. They’ve negotiated a neutral zone around the camp to contain the disease. Our boys should get there tomorrow, if everything goes well in Walle and Winsen


	2. April 15th, 1945, Germany

April 15th, 1945, Germany

Things didn’t go well in Walle or Winsen. The fighting delayed our approach, but this afternoon over dinner we received word that our troops had liberated the camp at Bergen. However, I was mistaken in calling it a prisoner-of-war camp. It’s more like a graveyard. The inmates, tens of thousands of them, are inches from death. Our men said the first thing they saw when they approached the camp was a pile of the dead, beyond count. More bodies were scattered about like toys abandoned by a child. Those who are still alive are not in a state to be so for long. Even now it is too late for another poor soul.They are starving and riddled with disease. My hands itch to work, to save a life. 

The soldiers currently there are not properly equipped to deal with the chaos of this magnitude. The severity and scale of this is nothing like we’ve encountered before. The only reason I am not there now is because we are waiting for more supplies and personnel to be dispatched. I suspect we will arrive there day after tomorrow, at the latest. It was a struggle to finish my meal after hearing the news, knowing that someone else desperately needs the nourishment. Many of the other boys, too, put down their forks. There will be many feigning sleep tonight. I know I will be one of them.


	3. April 17th, 1945, Bergen, Germany

April 17th, 1945, Bergen, Germany

I will write my memories of this day into this journal in the hopes that the pages will hold them so my mind won’t have to. 

When it comes to the battlefield, I am in my element. I can stitch flesh together or saw through a femur and not be haunted by the sight of blood or the soft sound of dying breaths. It’s a familiar routine, one I can easily fall into. 

Once I watched a young man, a boy really, hold his intestines in his arms as he died but I still slept that night. But today a woman whose face was more skull than skin came up to me. She pushed a baby in filthy swaddling rags into my arms then ran away. I started to examine the infant only to find that it had been dead for at least a few days. I don’t think I will ever sleep again.

The original estimates have fallen far short of reality. At least 50,000 people here are still alive, with another 10,000 or so dead nearby. We’ve made the remaining SS guards bury the bodies. When they’re done, they can just jump in with them. In addition to malnutrition, typhus, dysentery, and tuberculosis are the main causes of death. Everyone is riddled with lice. Some have even stopped wearing clothes to rid themselves of the parasites. There is no sanitation; the camp was meant to hold only 10, 000 prisoners. The latrines have long since overflowed and the floors of the bunks are covered in human waste and worse. 

There are people walking around still, like ghosts. Every so often one will fall down dead and the others will just shuffle around the body. Even the living lay with the dead upon the ground, hopeless. This has become normal for them. Around 500 died yesterday, and at least as many today. We’ve been setting up delousing stations and food tents in a mad rush to help them. Some of the soldiers gave the prisoners their rations on the first day, but the richness of the food was too much for their shriveled stomachs and it killed them. 

The people, Christ, the people. How a human being can still be alive like that I will never understand. They shamble around in ragged, striped clothing that hangs off them as if they were a tree branch. Their muscles are atrophied, having been consumed by their own metabolisms. I can see every joint, every rib. The faces are the worst. At first all you see is bone. Then, only after a few moments of horror, do the cracked lips and sunken eyes register as a face. They reach out to  
me, grasp at my coat with their dirty hands.

There was a queue of people waiting to get their first drink of clean water in several days. A man standing there could wait no longer; he fell over dead. Rationally, I know that cup of water would not have helped a man so close to death. Still, I am infuriated at what other humans have done to these people. I hope that Kramer bastard hangs for this. I’ve been trying hard to funnel that rage into energy I need to make a difference. There’s this toxic cocktail of emotions floating around inside me: rage, guilt, disgust, pity. I have to turn it into something product or else I fear it may consume me. 

I have hope and fear for what the next days hold.


	4. April 20th, 1945, Belsen, Germany

April 20th, 1945, Belsen, Germany

For what it’s worth, things have improved. That’s not saying much. More medical supplies and personnel have arrived. We are moving the survivors to some nearby German barracks. I will probably be stationed there for the duration of my service here. The SS destroyed most of the records before we arrived here, so we are clueless as to who these people really are. 

Most of us have overcome the shock and the nights have become short again. I get up in the morning, throw back a cup of bitter coffee, and dash off to check on the conditions of patients. I also find who has died during the night. Their bodies are taken away to be buried in a mass grave. I’m constantly rushing and giving commands to the orderlies.   
We are still experimenting with what the newly liberated inmates can eat. We’ve abandoned the beef rations unless the patient is in relatively good condition. Currently we are trying skim milk, with mixed results. Some specialists should be coming in soon to develop a rehabilitation diet. 

By the end of the day I fall into bed, exhausted. For a few precious hours I know nothing of the world. Five days ago I might have said I was dead on my feet. Now I know what that really looks like.


	5. April 21st, 1945, Bergen-Belsen, Germany

April 21st, 1945, Bergen-Belsen, Germany

Yesterday a German plane attacked one of the nearby satellite camps. Three British orderlies died. I didn’t know them.


	6. May 1st, 1945, Bergen-Belsen, Germany

May 1st, 1945, Bergen-Belsen, Germany

In this work, I cannot afford to form attachments to my patients. With 500 people still dying every day, I know it will only cause me more grief and trouble. 

There was a woman under my care that I was foolish enough to care about. We called her Marija, because every time we gave her food or water she would clutch her heart and whisper “O, Marija!”. She would speak in rapid Polish, and although I had scant knowledge of the language, I could easily read the gratitude on her face. The best part was her smile. She had the most lovely smile. That smile humanized everyone there. For a few fleeting moments each day, I felt less like a mortician and more like a doctor. She was improving greatly from her starvation and would always smile at me when I came by. It was a good moment, a rarity in this place, to see her pretty blue eyes crinkle while the color slowly returned to her cheeks. 

I was hopeful for her recovery. 

Today I was doing my rounds and someone else was lying on her cot. I inquired about her immediately. The nurse sighed and shook her head. 

I never even knew her name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marija is the name of a Serbian girl that my friends and I met in our hostel in Athens on spring break :)


	7. May 2nd, 1945, Bergen-Belsen, Germany

May 2nd, 1945, Bergen-Belsen, Germany

 I found myself at her cot again today. It was nothing more than fabric stretched taut over a metal frame, but it was a good deal better than the cramped wooden bunks of the camp.

 The man who currently occupied it was lying on his side, facing away from me. He rolled over at the sound of my approach. I tried to walk away, to turn my back and save myself from any more sorrow. What was I even doing there? Trying to find closure, maybe. But closure for what? Was I grieving over a complete stranger that I barely knew for six days?

 I briefly considered acting like I had forgot my stethoscope, but it sat heavily around my neck. Instead, I inhaled deeply and looked.

 Skin, sallow and scabbed. A haggard face with pale lips. His frame was a tall collection of pointy elbows and ridges exaggerated by hunger. It is difficult to estimate their ages; everyone looks like old, decrepit men. Late thirties, if I had to guess. He has dark hair, unevenly cut short, unlike those whose hair had grown back after being sheared off. He was still wearing the striped prison uniform.

 I noticed there was no identifying patch on his jacket.Usually they have yellow stars stitched on, but his was torn off.There was a slightly cleaner spot on the breast where it used to be. Tiny threads wormed through the fabric, where it used to bind label to inmate. The jacket reeked of the camps. Upon a tug of the collar a rim of dirty skin showed itself. He’d had a dodgy wash. The wash would have to wait, but I couldn’t leave him in that filthy uniform in good conscience. I procured a clean gown from the linen cabinet.

 “Is it alright if I help you dress?” I asked, unfolding the gown.

 He didn’t reply.

 “Do you speak English?” I asked.

 His eyes dragged up to mine, but remained silent.

 I looked at his face, expecting to see another empty stare. I was not disappointed. His eyes were sunken and grey. However, there was something else about them. I thought what I had been seeing in everyone else’s eyes was emptiness, but I realized that wasn’t quite true. Those eyes are dead, hopeless, ghostly. But when I looked into these eyes, I saw a void. They must have once been alive with purpose and impassioned with spirit. Now the pupils were black holes leading to vast emptiness.

 Hastily, I scrawled a note to the nurses to dress him, then I left.

 I told this to my co-workers tonight in the mess hall.

 “Mate, I think this whole ordeal may be getting to your head,” said Higgins over a plate of stroganoff. “They all look like Night of the Living Dead. This guy ain’t any different.” He ate a bite and grimaced. “Pass the cheese, would ya?”

 “Don’t think it’ll help much,” I said, tossing him a silver foil packet of parmesan. The bubble of voices in the mess hall was comforting; it is almost too quiet in the camps. Across the way, a couple young men joked heartily, carefree.

 A new but familiar voice came from behind me. “I don’t think that counts as cheese, do you Watson?” said my commander, Major Stamford.

 “Only if this counts as stroganoff, Major,” I replied. The casserole on my plate more closely resembled brown gelatin than beef stew.

 Stamford laughed and sat down with his own tray. “True, true.”

 “Major-” I began, attempting to change the subject.

 “Johnny here has made himself a friend,” interrupted Higgins.

 I cringed and stared down at my stroganoff.  

 “Is that so, Doctor?” Stamford clapped a hand on my shoulder.”Well, I can’t say I’m against some friendly rapport between us and them. God knows they need it. Just don’t shirk your other duties, and keep it friendly!” He oddly emphasized the last part of his sentence.

 “Yes, of course, sir. If you’ll excuse me, Higgins. Major.” I grabbed my tray and escaped.

  


_Keep it friendly_.

 

What the hell was he implying?

 

 


	8. May 3rd, 1945, Bergen-Belsen, Germany

****May 3rd, 1945, Bergen-Belsen, Germany

Tonight after rounds I went to visit him again. I thought I would talk to him, maybe tell a story to get his mind off things. Or at least, it might. I still have no idea if he can understand me. Neither I nor any of the nurses have heard a single word from him. Some of the people here do speak English, if only a few words. Regardless, it might get Major Stamford off my back. I brought a stool and sat down next to the cot. He was awake, staring up at the ceiling of the tent.

“Hello, I’m Dr. Watson and, er, I’d like to tell you a story, if you don’t mind.”

The man said nothing but rolled over on his right side so he was facing me. I took that as a signal to continue.

“So back when I first joined the army there was this guy, Wallace. He was a surfer from Cornwall. He was great, but he couldn’t step in time to save his life. When we would do single-file marches he would always lag behind a few steps, then have to run to catch up. Well, every time he did that, everyone behind him would have to run, as well. It made the sergeant absolutely furious! So he told Wallace that every time he had to catch up, it would cost him 100 push ups. By the end of the next march, Wallace had to do 600 pushups. And he did them all. All at once. The sergeant was impressed, but also livid, so he made him run around the barracks until dinner. I guess it worked, though. Wallace figured out how to keep in step rather quickly after that.” I quickly realized that probably wasn’t the best story to tell. I probably should have gone with the time that I snuck a roast chicken into my locker.

I looked over at him and found he was looking at me. He was still dressed in the striped camp uniform. A hushed curse escaped my lips; sometimes the nurses can be a blessing, but this was not one of those times. The clean gown was still hanging over the foot of the cot.

For the second time in as many nights, I asked, “Is it alright if I help you dress?”

He said nothing but did not look away. I slid my hand under his back to help him sit up. He lifted his hands to the buttons but his fine motor control was impaired. His thin shaking fingers struggled to grasp the small buttons.

“No, here, I’ll do it. Is that okay?” I reached for his collar.

He exhaled and lowered his arms.

I undid the fastens with deft movements. He made no moves to object, so I slid the jacket off his shoulders and tossed it on the floor. I saw that he had not been washed, which considering that the nurses hadn’t bothered to put him in clean clothes, didn’t surprise me. I quickly located a basin, a clean washcloth, and a towel, then drew some water from the spigot outside the tent.

When I came back he hadn’t moved. I picked up his legs and swung them off the bed, so he was sitting on the edge. I kneeled on the floor and tucked my fingers into the loose waistband of his trousers, keeping an eye on his expression for any signs of discomfort. They all but fell off his feet.

“Sorry, this will be cold,” I said as I dunked the cloth into the basin. He twitched slightly as the cool water touched his skin, but still did not lean away. I gently bathed him, taking the opportunity to examine his skin and body condition. There were no rashes indicative of typhus or signs of any other disease. I held his arms as I washed them, scrubbing away months of grime.

I wrung out the rag and dunked it again, this time focusing on his hands. My hand could almost encircle his wrist. I washed his chest, pausing to listen to his lungs with my stethoscope. Lung sounds were good; no sign of tuberculosis. When I finished with his chest and abdomen I walked around the bed to examine and clean his back. A few old scars shined in the dim light of the tent. He tensed up when I touched them.

I inspected his scalp and hair for any lice the delousing may have missed. Previously I thought his hair was patchy from abuse or malnutrition, but with closer scrutiny I saw the even lines of hair that had been cut with scissors. It wouldn’t look like that if someone else had done it, so he must have done it himself.

I rinsed the rag again.. The basin water was already gray, like painter’s water. I moved around in front of him again, to wash his legs and groin.

At the touch of the rag on his thigh his skin erupted in gooseflesh. He allowed me to wash in between his legs. His legs were long and lanky, ending in pointed feet. I’ve never seen him standing up but he must be taller than I. In better times he must have been long and lean. I finished up with his feet then vigorously dried him with the towel. I lifted his arms above his head, and he held them there while I grabbed the cotton gown. I pulled it over his head and helped him lift his legs back onto the bed. He was able to pull the rest of it down over himself on his own.

The night was a bit chilly, especially with his cot being a bit damp, so I gave him one of our few heavier blankets. As I pulled the blanket up to his chin, I risked a glance at his eyes again.

I don’t know if it was gratitude, a stirring, or just my wishful thinking, but I swear I saw something in them that wasn’t there before.

 

 


	9. May 13th, 1945, Bergen-Belsen, Germany

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and his patient go for an evening stroll.

May 13th, 1945, Bergen-Belsen, Germany

Despite the high death toll, after almost a month of rehabilitation, most people who are stable and improving are expected to stay that way. The nutrition experts are now feeding the patients a mixture of sugar and rice, spiced with paprika. Those who can eat and keep down solid foods are doing well with this decision. We’ve tried intravenously feeding some who can’t stomach solid food. That method was abandoned immediately, as it seemed that the SS had used injections to kill people. The mere sight of needles and affiliated equipment would send them into a panic.

 I’ve gotten in the habit of eating my own lunch with my friend. He’s improved greatly, I am glad to say. Still doesn’t talk, but we manage to communicate enough. He likes to hear me tell stories. I’ve told him about our neighborhood BB gun fights as kids, getting chased by bees in Foreman’s orchards (he really seemed to like that one, even smiled a bit), and the time my club house caught on fire and I managed to put it out before the fire department arrived.

 Even if it is essentially me just talking to myself, it makes me feel better. The patients around us like to hear the stories, too. Occasionally I’ll take requests to tell a certain story again.

 Today is comfortably warm with a slight breeze; the best weather we’ve had so far. It seems spring has finally arrived, and brought with it blues skies of hope and the soothing chatter of birdsong.

Major Stamford caught up with me as I was leaving the patients’ tent after my lunch.

 “Watson!” he called, catching me off guard.

 I snapped to attention and saluted, nearly dropping my clipboard in the process.

 “At ease. Rumour has it you’ve become quite the storyteller, Watson.”

 “I try.”

 “Is it true you did 600 push ups at once?” asked Stamford with a smile and a quirk of an eyebrow.

 “Ah, no, that wasn’t me,” I punctuated the sentence with a laugh. “Who did you hear that from?”

 “One of the nurses brought it up. Said one of the patients told it to her,” said Stamford.

 “Was it him? The man I sit with?”

 “No, no, I think it was a woman that repeated it. Seems you’re quite the hit. I’m glad you took my advice,” he put a hand on my shoulder. “I went through the tents yesterday, to see how people were doing. I don’t know if you notice it, since you see them every day, but the difference between these people and the bodies that shambled in here a month ago is amazing, Watson. It truly is.”

 I didn’t say it, but I actually could tell the difference. Every day that I go in and talk and keep him company, I see it in his eyes. They’re brighter, more vital, increasing in light like someone is turning the wick in an oil lamp.

 “Thank you, sir,” I said.

 He regarded me closely with a smile upon his lips.

 “You’ve changed, too, Watson. For the better, I’d reckon.” He must have seen the quizzical look on my face because he explained further. “It’s not just me, either. The boys have noticed, too. It’s hard not to, not here, when someone grinning ear-to-ear sticks out like a sore thumb.Oh, now don’t look embarrassed! Grimacing ages you, you know. I believe I heard a few of the nurses call you the ‘cute blond one’, eh?” He winked.

 “Just doing my duty, Major. It’s very…..rewarding.”

 Stamford nodded and looked at his watch. “Ah, well, I best be going. Enjoy the day, maybe take some of the patients on a stroll? I think we’ve got some old wheelchairs stashed away somewhere,” he said, gesturing widely to the collection of old army buildings behind him.

 I acknowledged his request and we parted ways. It took some searching but I did find a handful of old wheelchairs. They were likely donations acquired last minute before being dispatched here. I gave three of them to the other tents, but I kept one with me. By the time I rolled it into my tent, the nurses were busy distributing the evening meal.

 Just as I arrived to my friend’s cot, the nurse served him his dish of rice. I reached out and intercepted it before he could reach it.

 “I’ll take care of him, if you don’t mind,” I said to the nurse. She shook her head and moved on.

 I turned to my friend, who still had his arm stretched out for the plate that I now held.

 “Would you like to go outside for dinner?” I asked, motioning to the parked wheelchair in the aisle.

 In reply he made to sit up. He grabbed my left arm for support, nearly causing me to drop his food. I set it down and offered him my other arm. Slowly he swung his legs off the edge of the bed, his feet settling uneasily on the floor. He released my arm and I wrapped it around his back. Shakily, he stood up. After being supine for so long, it was a struggle to be upright again. He took a hesitant step.

 “It’s alright, I’ve got you,” I said quietly. I was right; he is taller than me. I murmured soft words of encouragement as he headed towards the wheelchair

 One, two, three, four, five steps until he reached the wheelchair. He sat down with a grunt and a sigh, breathing heavily from the sudden exertion.

 “That’s great! You did great,” I praised, setting his plate in his lap. I unlocked the brakes of the chair and wheeled him out, pausing only to pluck a spoon off the dinner cart.

 The evening air was fresh. The sun hung low on the horizon, making the clouds look straight out of a Renaissance oil painting. There was a place I thought we’d go, where the curve of the land sloped down towards a brook and you could see the nearby town. I said nothing. All I could hear was the sound of gravel crunching beneath the wheels and the scrape of his spoon against the metal dish.

 It was a short walk, but not one I was able to enjoy very often. When we’d gone far enough I engaged the brakes, making sure we both had good view. I could see the steeple of the town church catch the sun’s golden rays. I tried to imagine life in that little town. At this time of day I’d be settling down after dinner, drinking a beer, maybe reading a newspaper.

Did they know? Did they realized what was happening just a few clicks away? Imagine their horror when they discovered that people were starving, diseased, and abused within walking distance. Perhaps they did know. Perhaps they knew, but hid it. Swept it under the rug to mould as they hoped it would disappear. The Nazis were masters at propaganda. We were shown videos that advertised these prisons like summer camps. Did they believe that? Do they understand that if they didn’t go to that church or were born into a different family that they could just have easily been among the others lying in mass graves.

 I shook my head. I came here to have a nice evening, and by God I am going to! I sat down beside my friend in the wheelchair.

 “Did I ever tell you about the time my mother got in the wrong car?” I paused, as if expecting him to reply. True to form, he didn’t.

 “I was probably twenty-two, twenty-three when my mum first bought a car. She had inherited a bit of money when my father passed away. One day I drove her to the post office. She got out to go buy stamps or something while I waited in the car. Now, not a lot of people at that time had cars. But one of the other people who did pulled up to the curb in front of me. His wife got out and went inside the post office, as well. A few minutes later, my mother, who may I remind you is elderly, comes out of the post office. Without a second look she walks around the front of the other car and gets in! Through the back window I see the man startle and stare at mum while she starts talking, not even realizing she’s in the wrong car. Eventually she looks over. To this day, I can still see the look of confusion and terror on her faces as she screeches ‘You’re not John!’ Meanwhile I’m in the other car, stomach aching from laughter, tears in my eyes. I never let her forget that.” I laughed at the memory.

 He was smiling, too. I had never seen him really smile before. It suited him well, as did the orange light peeking out from behind the horizon. I gazed at the ever darkening sky. Just before the last hues faded, a wind chillier than we were dressed for came from the north.

 “I think we’ll call it a night, yeah?” I stood up, stiff from sitting on the ground.

 As I wheeled him back, I couldn’t help but wonder if he did understand English after all. Maybe he was smiling because I was laughing and smiling, too. I like to think it was both.

 When we were back in the tent, he tried to get up out of the wheelchair. He struggled once, on his own, then again using my arm as support. Each time he ran out of strength and plopped down in the seat. He looked up at me, defeated.

I stooped down and held him behind the shoulders with one arm. He reached up and hooked his arms around my neck as I held him under the knees with my other arm. I was surprised by how light he was. I carried him the few feet to the bed, then laid him down as gently as possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of John's stories are based off of real stories my dad told me. Like John's mum, my grandma Jo got into the wrong car once when she was paying the cable bill. Also Like John, I will take requests to flesh out any stories you would like to hear in future chapters.
> 
> I'll be updating once a week, probably on Mondays or Tuesdays.
> 
> Enjoy!


	10. May 19th, Bergen-Belsen, Germany

May 19th, Bergen-Belsen, Germany

How funny it is that some changes in our lives slip by us unnoticed, while others seem to arrive with a fanfare. 

They started burning the camp today. Finally everyone is out and taken care of.

Cheers erupted as the first building went up in flames. There’s a certain finality to seeing something burn. Although their ordeal is far from over, for the former inmates, there is something healing in seeing what was once their prison go up in smoke.

It marks the prelude to the end of my time here. While one part of me rejoices in being free of this place with its somber atmosphere and mass graves, I also find myself wishing to stay. When I think about why I wish to stay, I realize the reason is laying on a cot.

Everyone will be leaving soon. They will return to their own countries and begin rebuilding their lives. I know I am a selfish man, and this is why: as much as I want to return to England, I wish that I could have more time here. I have no friends outside of the army. Frankly, I have no friends inside of the army. Well, that’s not quite true. But up until this morning I could not blame my coworkers for scoffing when I called him ‘my friend’. 

I was sharing my lunch hour with him, as usual, when I casually made some dull remark about the weather. The dull clink of his spoon dropping onto his plate made me look up. He was staring straight ahead, with a look on his face like he remembered he’d left the stove on. 

He blinked a few times, took another bite of food, then simply said “Yes.”

I nearly choked on my own lunch. “What did you just say?”

“I answered your question,” he said. His voice was deeper than I thought it would be. He had the tiniest hint of an accent. Russian? Polish? I couldn’t quite place it. 

“What question?” I asked. 

“You asked if I spoke English,” he stated.

“I...I asked that weeks ago?”

“You did. Do you think I could have a bite of your potatoes? Rice and paprika has gotten very old.”

“Well, I suppose one bite couldn’t hurt. Especially since you’re gonna have to get used to a more varied diet,” I said, allowing him to take a small amount of mashed potatoes with his spoon.

“What do you mean, I’m going to have to get used to a more varied diet? Are they thinking about giving us different food?” he asked through a mouthful of potato.

“No, it’s because you’ll be repatriated soon,” I said.

“What? If I’d known that, I would have started talking sooner,” he said.

“Yeah, they just sent a bunch of people home to Czechoslovakia yesterday. So, why didn’t you? Start talking sooner, that is? Why keep quiet?” I asked.

He looked down and chased his food around his place with his fork. “Well, I, er, thought that maybe you would stop coming if I talked. I thought you had some sort of mission to get me to talk.”

“Of course that’s not the case. I genuinely like seeing you. And now that we can have actual conversation, there’s no chance in hell I’m going to stop coming by,” I said, looking into those sad, grey eyes. Only they weren’t sad and grey. Not anymore. At first I was surprised to see that they are blue. Then I noticed they were actually green. Now that I think about it, I’m not entirely sure what colour they are. They must be some impossible mixture of the two. 

I glanced at my watch and discovered that my lunch time was drawing to a close. I bid my farewells to the newly verbose man and was nearly to the door before I realized that I had overlooked the most basic of questions.

“What’s your name?” I asked, turning around.

“The name,” he said, “is Sherlock Holmes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very many thanks to Stephanie for your beta-ing!
> 
> Sources:  
> http://www.bergenbelsen.co.uk/pages/Timeline/Timeline1945After.html


	11. May 23rd, 1945, Bergen-Belsen, Germany

May 23rd, 1945, Bergen-Belsen, Germany

The past few days have been hectic. I thought I had lost this journal, which caused me a great deal of stress. The army generally frowns upon journal keeping, lest it fall into the enemy’s hands. However, I’m just a doctor so they gave me special permission to keep it. No confidential army codes that could jeopardize the war, but still, there are things in here that I wish to stay private. This morning, I finally found it stuffed inside my pillowcase, under the pillow. How I managed to sleep on it and not realize it is a mystery to me.

Of all the weeks to misplace my journal, this is the worst one. So many changes are happening. Not only has Sherlock (I called him Mr. Holmes once, but he quickly corrected me) started talking, but our time together is rapidly approaching its end. Tomorrow those who are stateless will leave for Lingen, Germany. After that I don’t know what will happen to them. I guess they’ll be separated out into whatever country will accept them. I must say that I won’t worry about my patients’ health. Everyone is doing remarkably well.

Our conversations have far surpassed what I had wished they would be. Originally I had thought we’d swap tales of our childhoods, comment on the weather, or otherwise engage in the dull chitchat that plagues two people who don’t know each other well. I’ve never been so glad to have been wrong. He refuses to talk about his past. I don’t blame him, but it did frighten me at first. He didn’t change the subject; he simply stopped talking. I feared he had gone mute again. Then I changed the topic and he answered me, with no reference to his previous silence. I still tell him stories. He requested the one about the bees in the orchard again. After that I told him a new one, when I put the back axles of my mum’s car on cinder blocks so she couldn’t follow me around town.

I wish I had had this journal with me then, so I could jot down our topics of conversation. Now I find that the specifics of our talks are slipping away. We talked about philosophy, history, and science, for sure. I reckon Sherlock is an educated man, for he talked in depth about the chemical properties of different narcotic drugs for a good half hour. However, when the topic of space came up, he seemed to lack any knowledge of the solar system.

I’m not sure how it’s possible, but he’s become even more of an enigma since he started talking. He won’t tell me his nationality, only that he will declare himself stateless. Once I asked him if he had any siblings.

He responded with a question of his own. “What is your brother’s name?”

The question baffled me, obviously. I have absolutely no clue where he got that idea from.

“No, you have to answer my question first,” I told him.

No answer, surprise, surprise. Instead he picked a biscuit off my tray with his long, thin fingers.

“Oi, easy on the sweets,” I reprimanded lightly. We talked a bit more, but I can’t remember exactly what. Something I said made him laugh. His laugh was a deep rumble that paired excellently with the wrinkles around his eyes.

When I left I “forgot” my last biscuit on the stool next to him.

I don’t know if I will ever hear him laugh or even lay eyes on him again. Tonight I went to pay him another visit, only to find he wasn’t there. The lady next to him said she saw him get up and leave, but that was all she knew. I went outside, searching for a tall, dark head among the crowd. People were queueing up, getting ready to depart. In one crushing moment I realized he could have snuck onto that train and was about to leave without saying farewell. Perhaps it will be better this way. A clean cut rather than a long, drawn out goodbye.

I hope that he just wanted some privacy. I can respect that. But I am also preparing myself to find his bed cold and empty in the morning.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in posting! I'm moving across country, so it will be a couple weeks until the next chapter, but I'll post two chapters then! Thanks for reading!


	12. May 24th, 1945, Bergen-Belsen, Germany

May 24th, 1945, Bergen-Belsen, Germany

He didn't leave.


	13. May 25th, 1945, Bergen-Belsen, Germany

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's first letter to Sherlock

May 25th, 1945, Bergen-Belsen, Germany

Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,

I pray this letter finds you well. As to how this letter has found you, let me explain. Do you remember Major Stamford? He was the one that urged me to talk to you. I ran into him as soon as your train pulled away. Upon expressing my regrets at our seemingly permanent separation, he offered to keep us in touch. He said he’ll pull some strings and see that this letter finds its way into your hands. I assume he will attach instructions for correspondence, should you wish to continue. 

I feel as if you’ve known me for much longer than I’ve known you. Over the past month I’ve told you so many things about myself that I don’t remember exactly what you have and haven’t heard. I figured this letter is as good a record as any. When you asked what my brother’s name was, I was surprised. Not because you thought I had a sibling; that much was obvious. Harry is a few years older than me. I mentioned using a hand-me-down gun before, didn’t I? No, I was surprised because you made an incorrect assumption. Have you realized your mistake? I’ll be the quiet one, for once, and leave you to be the puzzled one!

I grew up in a small town, as you know. My mother was a nurse but was forced to leave her job to be a mother. She wasn’t happy about me joining the army, but I hope she’s changed her mind. However, she was thrilled when I became a doctor. My father died a few years ago. He was a writer and a great storyteller. Maybe that’s where I get it from. Several months before his death he developed dementia. Towards the end he couldn’t recognize me or my mum. 

I enjoyed athletics when I was school. Rugby was my favorite, by far. I was quite the star on my team. Harry ran track for a year or so, but wasn’t motivated enough to go anywhere with it. 

I think I’ll end this missive with a story, if only for old times’ sake. When I first joined the military, I was intent on being in the infantry. The first several weeks of training were a sort of weed-out period. They underfed us as a tactic to make the heavier blokes lose weight. Well, that worked great for them. During that time I had a high metabolism and lots of muscle to maintain. By the end of it I was ravenous. The next weekend that we had some free time, I bought a rotisserie chicken from one of the travelling vendors that came through the base. I smuggled it into my barrack even though outside food was considered contraband. I barely had time to unwrap it and get a whiff of its delicious aroma when the other boys burst in saying there was a going to be a surprise inspection. The chicken was quickly thrown in my wall locker and smothered under a duffel bag.

The sergeant doing the inspection was Stallworth. He was an intimidating man; at least two heads taller than me, with ruddy, pock-marked skin, and steel blue eyes. I stood at attention, ramrod straight, praying that he wouldn’t look in my locker. Stallworth stalked down the aisle, leering at our bunks and occasionally examining a foot locker. He passed me without a second glance. He went down the length of the room and returned to the doorway before I dared to think I was off the hook. Suddenly he turned to face us.

“Alright, who has the chicken?” he demanded.

My stomach twisted into a knot, but I knew better than to deceive the sergeant. I spoke up, and he told me to follow him and bring the chicken.

I sweated the whole way to his office, cursing myself and that damn chicken. He sat me down across from his desk, with the chicken between us.

“Are you getting enough to eat, Watson?” he asked.

“No, sir,” I replied.

Stallworth reached under his desk. I imagined he was looked for reprimand forms. You can imagine my astonishment when he pulled out a couple of beers!

“Let’s not let this chicken go to waste,” he said. Together we devoured that bird and threw back those beers. Of course he threatened me within an inch of my life if I ever let on that we hung out like old friends, but from then on I always had extra portions on my tray.

Well, that’s more than enough about me. I’m anxiously awaiting your reply,

Your Friend,

John Watson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Partially inspired by this article:  
> http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-3043724/Against-odds-British-soldier-sent-liberate-Belsen-camp-fell-love-Jewish-inmate-thanks-kindness-army-major.html
> 
> Sorry for the delay in posting! School started and things got crazy! I read all your comments and appreciate all your feedback. Enjoy :)


	14. August 1st, 1945, Europe

August 1st, 1945, Europe

Dear Dr. Watson,

First allow me to apologize for not responding sooner. No offense intended, but I’ve had more important things to take care of. I must admit I hadn’t thought about exchanging contact information until I was nearly to Lingen. Truthfully, I was glad to receive your letter. I have already extended my thanks to Major Stamford. You may have noticed that I’ve been vague with my location. No need to worry. 

As for the puzzle you left me with, I must say I’ve wracked my brain trying to figure out my “incorrect assumption.” Every other possibility has been disproven by myself or by you in your letter. I give up.

I could give you an extensive account of my family tree, but that would be tedious. Even you would find that dull. In short, I have an older brother with whom I have recently been in touch. Both my parents are still living, and in America, apparently. Like I said, dull. 

I enjoyed your story about the chicken. You, as my doctor, will be glad to know that a few days ago I enjoyed a roast chicken similar to the one you shared with Stallworth. It was my first time having roast bird in a year, I think. 

Next time, could you include the story about Foreman’s orchard? I'd like to have that one written down.

Your friend,

Sherlock


	15. August 27th, 1945, London

August 27th, 1945, London

Dear Sherlock,

Christ! “No need to worry”, my arse! How can you disappear for two months, write to me from who knows where, and then expect me not to worry? I thought I was never to hear from you again. Next time you decide to fall off the face of the bloody earth, at least let Major Stamford know. I have significantly more grey hairs than I did a few months ago, thank you very much. 

I find it hilarious that you haven’t figured it out yet. Should I make you wait even longer?

As you have no doubt noted, I am now in London. They told me I’d done my duty for King and Country and sent me home. I’m in a dingy bedsit in Pentonville. My room is sparse and my walls are a sad bone white. Across the road there is a decrepit park, filled with sad playground equipment. Somehow the children leave less happy than when they arrived. I’m tempted to put a chain across the entrance so I don’t have to watch them walk away dejectedly after trying to play on the rusty swing set.

It’s too quiet here. I wish I had my gun.[[1](%E2%80%9C#note1%E2%80%9D)]

I appreciate the brief introduction to your family, but I was hoping you’d go deeper. What was your brother’s name again? Did you ever actually tell me? I’m glad to hear your family is safe. I can’t imagine what it’s like for some of these people. I don’t want to imagine going home only to find that your loved ones are gone. Go ahead and tell me about your family. Don’t think for a moment that I would find it “dull.”

So, on to Foreman’s orchards:

When I was a kid, probably 13 or 14, there was an orchard next to my subdivision. We’d use it as a shortcut to get into town, even though it was private property. Old man Foreman loved to run us off. One day me, the McCarty brothers, and this kid named Phillip rode our bikes into the orchard on our way to the sweets shop. About halfway through, we heard this weird noise, like an airplane flying way off in the distance. We dropped our bikes to look around and see if we could find the source. Sure enough, we did. It was a gigantic swarm of bees!

It was the craziest thing; the bees were in a tree, apparently attached to a limb. It was just a giant pulsating, vibrating orb of bees. It was easily as big as a watermelon . They were crawling out of the bottom of the swarm, up the sides, and then back in the top. Thousands of individuals, constantly moving.

We stood there for a moment, watching in awe. Then all of a sudden, an apple comes flying from behind us and lands _in the bees_. It sunk into the swarm in slow motion. I turned around to glare at Terry McCarty, who judging by the smug look on his face, had thrown the apple. Then the low humming noise turned into a high-pitched, frenzied buzzing. The ball started to disintegrate.

We got out of there as fast as we could. I could run faster than the others, so I reached my bike first. I could hear them saying “Ow!” and slapping at themselves as they were stung. Poor Terry must have fallen or just been really slow that day because he got stung all over. Serves him right, the git. Luckily the rest of us rode away relatively unscathed. 

Please write back soon.

Your friend,

John Watson

[[2](%E2%80%9C#note2%E2%80%9D)]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 This line was whited out. Typed over it was the phrase "Overall, I'm rather happy here."  [ [return to text](%E2%80%9C#return1%E2%80%9D) ]
> 
> 2 Under this, a hasty note scrawled in pencil read "Harry is short for Harriet"


	16. September 15th, 1945

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! So sorry for the wait! I have a week of vacation so I'll have enough time to churn out a chapter or two! Thanks for sticking with it. Enjoy :)

September 15th, 1945

 

Dear Dr. Watson,

 

Sister! Harry is your sister! There’s always something!

Please read on since you’re so keen to know about my family. 

My older brother, Mycroft, god knows where he is. We’ve corresponded but he was more vague than I was about his whereabouts, if you can imagine. We were never the typical siblings. There were no displays of brotherly affection. I think he tried it once, before deciding it was beneath him. He has kept himself busy with some government job. I don’t know which government. 

How our parents managed to keep their sanity, I can scarcely imagine. As I mentioned in my last letter, they are staying with old friends in America. Mother must have told me at some point how she and Father met, but I can’t remember. I must have deleted it. They raised us in the countryside and tortured us with suffocating visits to distant relatives. The nearest neighbour was a half-hour walk away, which suited us just fine. I preferred the company of books and my microscope to that of people. I spent endless hours cataloging arthropod species and documenting the locations of toxic plants. 

I did go to university, but dropped out after a year. Eventually I went back and completed a chemistry degree. I worked off and on, doing odd jobs to get by. One thing I truly enjoyed was doing freelance detective work. I have even considered opening a consultancy. This brings me to my final point. I have the opportunity to start taking clients in London. It’s nice spot near Regent’s Park. I know the landlady. 

You probably have prior arrangements, but if it proves convenient for you I beg you to consider agreeing to a flatshare with me. Even if it is not convenient, I wish you would join me all the same.

The address is 221b Baker Street.

Your friend,

Sherlock


	17. September 30th, 1945 London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is sad and lonely and already in so deep for Sherlock

September 30th, 1945 London

Today I moved in with Sherlock Holmes. We agreed to meet outside 221b at half past twelve this afternoon. The weather was fine; it was one of those last sunny days before the onset of autumn permanently chilled the air. I decided to walk and break for lunch on the way. My mind raced ahead of me, imagining the reunion. I half feared that he would never show. A lot could have gone wrong between...well, wherever he began and here. A small voice told me that he had changed his mind, but I forced the idea away. The way in which he asked seemed to sincere to back out.

My mind’s eye always seemed to get hung up on what he looked like now. He must be so different from when I last saw him. He always went through a sort of transformation in my imagination. At first he appeared as I first saw him, deathly thin and grey. But I knew he was recovered. His hair must also have grown. It changed from hastily hacked short to medium length to long and ragged like a vagabond. I also couldn’t imagine what clothes he wore. The subject seemed too frivolous to bring up in our letters.

I couldn’t remember his eyes. For all the impact they’ve had on my life, you’d think I could remember them! But it’s like admiring a painting in a gallery. I can’t replicate it, and I find myself comparing everything to them in an attempt to grasp their reality. That flower, only more blue. That shade of sky. A dash of green and you’ve got it. More than once, I must admit, I’ve dreamt that I come upon him facing away from me, but just when he turns to look at me I wake up.

It was only 11:30 when I reached the eastern end of Marylebone Road, so I ducked into a café and tried to relax. I was clenching my fists so tightly that my fingernails had pressed little white crescent moons into my palms. I bought a disappointing turkey and mustard baguette, then pretended to read a newspaper for half an hour. Eventually I emerged and endeavored to walk slowly the rest of the way. My mind alternatively raced and wandered until the golden dome of Marylebone Parish church came into view.  
A quick glance at my watch told me that I was right on time. It occurred to me that I did not know what mode of transport Sherlock was taking. I looked for him amongst the busy turnstiles at Baker Street Station, but to no avail.

It is a rare moment when you are aware that your life is about to change. When I turned to corner onto Baker Street I knew that there were two courses my life could take. Either I would share this flat with Sherlock or I would not be writing this.

I crossed the road and within moments was standing in front of 221b. There was a little cafe with a bright red awning to the right of the door. The door itself was broad and black with gold numbers and knocker. I remember thinking about what it would be like to come home to this every day when I heard a cab pull up behind me.

I could barely recognize him. Of the number of things that struck me, the first I could comprehend was that when he greeted me, he spoke with a perfect English accent. I could go into great detail about how his eyes looked and how I felt when I looked into them, but this is my journal, not a teenage girl’s diary.

He was tall. Taller than I remembered. Maybe it was his hair, which had grown into a mop of black curls. He was impeccably dressed in a dark blue double-breasted coat. Even after months of separation I still considered myself his doctor. As he rang the doorbell I noted the color in his cheeks and the strength of his handshake. _No one_ , I thought to myself , _would think that mere months ago this man was barely alive._

My observations were cut short by the landlady opening the door. She was introduced as Mrs. Hudson, and I liked her immediately. She fussed over Sherlock. By the time we had reached the flat on the first floor she had already offered us tea and cakes. She seemed surprised when I asked to see the upstairs bedroom.

 

Sherlock turned to me. “Mrs. Hudson was one of my first clients. Her husband was arrested on a murder charge. I helped seal the deal,” he said with a wink.

“So where is Mr. Hudson now?” I asked.

“Six-feet under. He was executed by the state of Florida.”

The flat is very agreeable, although anything would have been an improvement after living in the bedsit. Sherlock already had some of his belongings brought up, including a real human skull, an extensive library, and a violin.

I made myself comfortable in a red armchair near the fireplace while my new flatmate bounded around the kitchen, unpacking what looked like beakers and graduated cylinders.  
“Sherlock, tell me more about this consultancy you want to open” I asked.

The sounds of clinking glassware stopped. Sherlock sat down in the black leather chair across from me.

 

“How was the turkey sandwich?” he asked.

 

I was expecting this so I gave him a pointed look. He rolled his eyes and began to explain.

“There’s a bit of mustard on the corner of your lip, most likely from a turkey sandwich. Could have been ham but turkey is more likely. Bought it at a shop on the way here; I saw a bit of receipt paper sticking out of your pocket earlier. The dirt on your shoes tells me that you walked here. I know you dressed in a hurry this morning and that you ate curry take away last night. That’s what I see when I look at you”

“That’s….amazing.”

“Now imagine what I can see at a crime scene. I can read an alibi in a woman’s jewelry and tell a liar by the way they hold their hands. People come to me with their problems and I help them. Well, I help the interesting ones.”

“So, you’re a private detective?”

“No, I’m a consulting detective. The only one in the world.”

**Author's Note:**

> To the people who deserve my thanks:  
> Valerie, for going with me on that whirlwind trip to Krakow, which helped inspire this fic.  
> To Chloe, Cristina, Stephanie, and Carolyn, for those pub crawls and your support on this wild journey.
> 
> I am not an expert on WWII or the Holocaust. This is completely a work of fiction and any historical inaccuracies should not be taken seriously. That being said, I have done research on this topic in order to imitate history as close as possible.
> 
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bergen-Belsen_concentration_camp  
> http://www.ushmm.org/wlc/en/article.php?ModuleId=10005224-title=Bergen-Belsen-accessdate=April


End file.
